More Than Meant To Be
by Absolut Grey
Summary: Post-war, Harry and Draco meet outside the wizarding world while both looking for a way to continue lives suddenly found empty. (Warning: mm slash, possible spoilers)
1. Looking Back

Title: More Than Meant To Be  
  
Author/Artist: DangerouslyHazle  
  
Pairing: H/D  
  
Rating: R (for future content)  
  
Chapter Summary: Harry recaps his summer and faces a decision. Draco fights his feelings and moves on.  
  
Disclaimer: Nearly everything belongs to JK Rowling, I can take credit only for the story line and a few OCs.  
  
Possible Spoilers: Any of the books, potentially.  
  
Warnings: m/m slash  
  
__________________________________________________  
  
Chapter one: Looking Back  
  
Harry stood, bare but for a pair of boxer-briefs, in front of the mirror. He surveyed his reflection with an expression of distaste.  
  
That long, curved one, there... An enchanted sword. That short, angled one: a curse deflected and warped by a shield. That small pink dot: a poisoned goblin dart. A splayed pattern of still-pink branches: a cat-o- nine-tails made of fire.  
  
There were scars nearly everywhere, from weapons and spells galore.  
  
Harry crossed his arms over his scarred, toned chest, and contemplated his summer.  
  
After the battle – which Harry refused to relive just then – he'd woken here, at the Dursley's, in Dudley's room. His trunk had been by the bed in the immaculate room, but he hadn't touched the thing. After a moment of disorientation, Harry had wandered downstairs in a daze, only to be greeted by an equally clean, though not as unoccupied, house. His aunt Petunia was cleaning already gleaning kitchen counters when he'd found her.  
  
His uncle Vernon and Dudley were away looking at colleges, and she didn't know what those people were thinking, leaving an injured boy in her care, and who knew when he would have woken up, and how could they be so sure that these "spells" of theirs would make sure he didn't....  
  
And... Was he alright?  
  
The look on her face was torn between concern, confusion, and frustration. She looked nearly in tears. Harry felt detached and lost. The last thing he remembered before waking... his mind shut off the train of thought, and he felt his face shift from vacant to stonily impassive. He told his aunt that he was as fine as could be expected, for someone who'd nearly died saving the world. Petunia looked as if she was trying to figure out if he was serious or not... and was extremely worried that he was telling the truth.  
  
He'd thanked her, more gently, and asked if she needed help with anything. He was almost amused by her shock at not having to issue orders for once. It was probably the only thing that made her decline his offer. Even better, she'd told him to help himself to the food in the kitchen.  
  
His uncle and cousin hadn't come back, and there had been no telephone calls or letters from them. Petunia's obsessive cleaning belied her emphatic statements that there was nothing wrong, but there was nothing Harry could do about any of it.  
  
He spent his early days reading meaningless fiction and going through the motions of living. He was particularly fond of science-fiction (the emphasis on science, on off-world adventure, was appealing). He went on short walks around the neighborhood, ignoring the new occupants of Mrs. Figg's house, and sat on the porch to get fresh air. In short, he'd sought distractions.  
  
But then this had come, breaking into his month-long reverie...  
  
Finally, a part of him said.  
  
NO, said another.  
  
Harry uncrossed his arms, picked up the object of discomfort from his bed, and – ignoring both voices – opened the letter that had been delivered by a chocolate brown owl earlier that morning (it had reminded him sharply of Hedwig – NO, a voice came again).  
  
The letter was short, simple, and achingly familiar. The heading sent a wave of sorrowpainwistfullness through what heart he still felt:  
  
HOGWARTS SCHOOL  
of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY  
  
It was his seventh year list, of course. And the large parcel beside his bed, delivered just a few hours after the letter, would most likely contain the books listed on the letter he held in his hand. How convenient.  
  
Harry looked up from the letter, at his reflection once more. His emerald gaze rested on his reflection's forehead, and he felt his heart go icy. The same as it had every time he looked in a mirror since he'd woken up in his aunt's (he no longer thought of it as the Dursley's) house. His lightning bolt of a scar, once thin yet vivid and embarrassingly conspicuous, seemed to be healing.  
  
Yes, healing. It was even thinner, and its color now closer to that of his natural skin color...  
  
The ice around his heart was born of the scary thoughts that made him wake up sweaty and panting at night. It was remembrance, mostly. But why was the healing scar a bad thing? he asked himself. Surely it should be a reassurance...  
  
A tear slid down Harry's cheek. He refused to look the reason in the eye, but it was as clear as his reflection was: the scar, the war, the prophecy, the responsibility, the certainty... It was who he was. As many times as he'd resented the burdens, as he'd wished that he could be like other – normal – people, Harry had the entire package embedded into his identity when he was eleven years old and given a new life. Now that the prophecy was fulfilled, the war ended, and the scar fading, there were very few pieces that this black-haired, green-eyed boy could find of himself. He was empty, and falling apart at the seams.  
  
Now they wanted him back at school. There was even a note congratulating him on being officially of-age. Harry's brow knit... He supposed his birthday might have passed. It had been about a month since he'd woken here, plus maybe a month of that final battle, after the rushed completion of the last school year...  
  
Might as well be July, then. He took a breath, and let it out slowly.  
  
He was still unwilling to face his past, and even more unwilling to face his unguided future, but what else did he have to do? He couldn't very well stay here, on his aunt's goodwill. Especially when she displayed the very feelings he was ignoring in himself: a desire not to remember, not to care, not to think too much. He'd have to get an apartment, a job... he'd have to be a part of society again, if only the Muggle one.  
  
His decision was simple, really. Return to his wizard life, or return to his Muggle one.  
  
A matter of choosing which held more good, or less bad, things for him...  
  
The lesser of two evils (his mind shied from that word).  
  
With his "ultimate" goal now behind him – and it was still so hard to – there was nothing to guide him in this decision.  
  
*******  
  
Draco Malfoy sat behind the desk in the main study in Malfoy Manor, tapping the feathery end of his quill against his lips.  
  
He read over the seventh year list again, wondering if he'd be going back to school. It was logical, he supposed, to finish the final year of education. It would be easier to be apprenticed, or to train for a ministry job... Not that he knew what the hell he wanted to do with his life. The only thing he was certain of was that he would not simply sit and live off his inheritance, despite its limitless proportions.  
  
But school was not necessary, really. Only logical, and a decent way to explore possibilities for the future, as pointless a concept as "future" had become.  
  
Draco ignored the unease in his heart, just as he ignored the cause of his hesitation to attend his final year at Hogwarts; deep down, he dreaded seeing those decimated grounds and halls, and the equally decimated population. An empty, battle-scarred school...  
  
"Draco, darling, there you are!" his mother exclaimed, entering the study dressed in a white silk nightgown. "And at what an hour. Studying, are you?" She asked fondly, her hands going to her slim hips, and her pale, blonde-framed face cocking to one side as she smiled at him.  
  
Despite his less-than-chipper thoughts, Draco smiled softly back. "I guess you could say that, mother. You should be sleeping."  
  
"So should you, dear. It's nearly dawn." Narcissa Malfoy sighed. "I think I'll watch the sunset..." And she wandered off, back the way she'd come, followed by the house elf now on duty to look after her.  
  
Draco had rejected the idea of medical treatment out of hand. His mother was simply dealing with the past in her own way, he knew. There was no reason to put her in St. Mungos, not when she was no harm to anyone. There weren't even any private practitioners he trusted. Even though he couldn't be in the manor all the time, he felt better knowing she was safe at home. Here there was loyal staff and an infusion of generations of familial familiarity (a term he enjoyed musing over).  
  
The quill came away from his mouth, and he twirled it, staring through the black and white pattern on the feather. At least she never asked about Lucious anymore, or the Death Eaters, or the Dark Lord...  
  
Apparently his facial expressions conveyed his feelings even to the mentally unstable (Not insane, a voice vehemently interjected). He disliked remembering the battle, especially his part in it. He had refused to choose sides, but had been at Hogwarts when the attack came. Despite his adamant refusal to go against his family, Draco had ended up at the makeshift infirmary of the Order's side. He consoled his guilt – for Malfoy loyalty was a hard-learned lesson – by telling himself that the lives he'd saved were not going back into battle. He hadn't been helping any side, really...  
  
Familiar anger bubbled up. Damned, ignorant, BLINDLY following Death Eaters! Couldn't they see that their efforts were in vain? And most of them called themselves Slytherins! How intelligent was following a thing that used and abused you? How ambitious was it to fight another's battle? How...  
  
Snap.  
  
Draco glared at the now-broken quill. Calm down, he told himself. Sighing gustily, he dropped the pieces to run a hand through his long blonde hair. The absent gesture was enough to turn his mind to his changed image. He was sure no one would recognize him now, unless it was for his striking resemblance to his mother. Especially with his hair past his shoulders. He allowed himself a small smile of triumph: Barring the silver tone to his ice-blue eyes (lucius's had been grey), he looked nothing like his father. It was a small thing, admittedly, but it was easier to forget the bastard when reminders of him weren't present in the mirror.  
  
Maybe if there was no physical similarities, there would be nothing else... Draco would not become his father. He swallowed, and mentally swore. So much for changing to a less troubling mental topic.  
  
It was all because of this damned letter! Draco glared at the offending object. With decisiveness that had nothing to do with logic, thought, or plan, He squashed the parchment into as small a ball as he could manage, and dropped it into his wastebasket. He took his wand from his desk drawer, and muttered a spell. The letter disappeared.  
  
With a sigh, Draco took out a sheet of blank parchment – and an unbroken quill – and began a letter to the department of employment within the ministry. He detailed what he was looking for in a job, along with his stronger academic points, and his sadly brief list of references and previous job experience.  
  
After finishing the letter, addressing it and stamping it, he called a servant to send it on its way. As an afterthought, he sent a second to see about completing his education by mail or tutor... it wouldn't have the same weight as a certificate of completion from Hogwarts had – nor NEWT scores, but perhaps he could take those independently as well – but it was better than the six years he currently held. OWL scores only went so far.  
  
Now that he was on his path, Draco once again had something to the distract him from the emptiness inside of him. The feeling was born of having lost his family, associates, and social standing. Perhaps, too, born of having had his life complete turned on its head. That would do it, he supposed.  
  
Once he'd settle his affairs, cleaning himself of his father and the Dark business their family name had fallen into (the guilt-causing work at the Hogwart's infirmary had helped greatly, proving that he hadn't been involved in the attack), he'd mainly concerned himself with making his mother comfortable. And even that had become a weak distraction.  
  
Hopefully renewing his education and getting employment of some sort would provide something to create a new self from. Then he wouldn't have to keep hiding from who he used to be...  
  
Or the lack of person he currently was.  
  
_____________________________________________________  
  
Author Note~  
I haven't got a beta, FYI, so I apologize for my errors (correcting one's own work can only catch so many, I know). Anyone who's good with editing, please feel free to let me know if you'd like the position (comes with high esteem, I tell you!) on this story.  
Also, please keep in mind that this is my first fic (in case you don't like it), and I'm probably going to be slow (in case you do).  
Reviews are much appreciated. Especially flames, I might add... Dunno why, by getting yelled at is so exhilarating (. Plus it gives me an excuse to stalk around and complain about stuff. That's fun.  
  
Update: Fixed my freudian slip (sheesh) after banging my head repeatedly on my desk.  
Draco's mother is now correctly named Narcissa... (*blush* one of my fave pairings is Narcissa/Lily... sorry!)  
And I got a beta offer from one Sailor Grape, so hopefully any future errors are greatly reduced.  
  
Update #2: ARGH. Why do SOME tabs show up when I upload a document, but not others?! I had to go and add a line between paragraphs to make it show up! Why didn't someone tell me this chapter started out with one big CHUNK of sentences! It was supposed to be about ten different paragraphs. It was horrible! And yet all anyone complained about was the damned name mix-up. *mutter* 


	2. Regrouping

Title: More Than Meant To Be  
  
Author/Artist: DangerouslyHazle  
  
Pairing: H/D  
  
Rating: R (for future content)  
  
Chapter Summary: Harry's made his choice, and Draco goes to a job interview.  
  
Disclaimer: Nearly everything belongs to JK Rowling; I can take credit only for the story line and a few OCs.  
  
Possible Spoilers: Any of the books, potentially.  
  
Warnings: m/m slash  
  
_________________________________________________  
  
Chapter two: Regrouping  
  
It was a small flat, Harry noted, but it would do. He turned back to the man who would be his landlord, one Mr. Quentin, and smiled down at him.  
  
"I like it," he told the small, dour faced Asian man.  
  
"Good. Here's the paperwork." Harry was given the mentioned papers, abruptly. "Have them signed and given to me..." Mr. Quentin paused. "When did you say you're moving in?" He seemed annoyed.  
  
Harry suppressed amusement. He could tell this was going to be a beautiful relationship. "I didn't, but I'd like to move in as soon as possible."  
  
Mr. Quentin made a 'humph' noise in his chest. "Two days, then. Paperwork in tomorrow, first month's rent due a week from then. Normally," he glared up at Harry, "rent is due the day the move-in is complete, but since you're rushing yourself I doubt you'd manage it."  
  
Harry nodded his understanding. With a return nod, sharply done, the landlord turned and walked out the door, leaving Harry to get acquainted with his new home.  
  
The door faced a landing with a staircase leading down to the small side street on which the apartment complex sat. Another door with an unknown neighbor behind it was across the landing. The apartment, though small, was open and fresh, with a big window in the modest bedroom, light colors, and most of the scant space belonging to the kitchen. The facilities were clean, probably due to the tyrannical dynamo of a landlord, and Harry could see his meager furnishings fitting nicely into place.  
  
A now-familiar voice wafted in through the open door. "And don't think I'm encouraging rushing into things! It'll only be this once, mind you!"  
  
He allowed himself a small smile, a rare occurrence while he was alone. He could breathe easier now that he was starting to rebuild.  
  
Two days later, the apartment had a comfy queen-sized bed, an equally comfy couch, a coffee table, and a few necessary kitchen appliances. Harry planned on a telly and some bookshelves at some point (his books currently resided in a box), and was contemplating the virtues of a dresser. All in all, things were fitting together. He'd even annoyed Mr. Quentin by giving him the month's rent early. With home on its way to being settled, there was the simple matter of something to fill the days with. He was leaning towards employment instead of a hobby. Harry sat on his couch perusing through the local newspaper for a job of some sort.  
  
His efforts weren't promising. The only things he had circled were openings for a clerk (with his handwriting?), an assistant grocer (but the market was so far from the apartment!), a magazine editor (would they take someone with no experience?) and an athletic trainer (would Quidditch training help with Muggle sports?), and none looked very likely.  
  
Another ad he'd circled was an empty building for lease. It had caught his eye because it was – as far as he could make out – only a few blocks from the apartment. He didn't really have any idea what to do with it, should he choose to rent it. Obviously start a business of some sort, but what?  
  
Beside the Muggle newspaper he was looking through sat a copy of the Daily Prophet. It was a last-ditch effort. A job in the wizarding world was barely above living off his inheritance on his list of preferences. Harry stretched, relieving tension from his hunched position.  
  
He considered his options once more, rubbing his neck. Well, about that lease... Perhaps he should check it out. If he looked at the shops around it, he might get an idea of what to do with it. At least he could rule out the types of businesses that were near.  
  
In fact, the option was more appealing the more he thought about it. Harry stood, grabbed his coat from the hall closet beside the door (he mentally added a coat rack to his list of things to buy), and headed out the door. He didn't want anyone getting the spot before he could at least look at it.  
  
A scant hour later, Harry was on the payphone with the lease agent, negotiating the payment. The empty spot was in a building complex set off a little ways from a main street, making it convenient for foot traffic without detracting from its accessibility. It was neighbored by a couple of specialty bookshops, a coffee shop, an ice cream and yogurt place, and a small, independent magazine. Harry was pretty sure they were all simple home-run businesses, just as his would be. He still didn't know what the hell he was doing, but at least he had some people to help him with any kinks.  
  
The place he was leasing had facilities for food preparation, though, and the agent said a café used to be there. The previous owner had to close because of family troubles depleting his money, apparently. It hadn't been due to lack of success, so maybe he could make it another café of some sort? Hmmm... Broomstick Café had a nice ring to it. Harry shook his head at himself. His thoughts kept running away with him.  
  
The agent said he'd be sending the necessary information and paperwork to Harry's address – unfortunately to the Privet Drive one, due to his inability to remember his new place – and they'd get things squared away. The man hadn't sounded surprised at Harry's eager nervousness at all, much to Harry's relief. The sales pitch about the place being "perfectly suited to Mr. Potter's needs" had been unnecessary, but pleasing nonetheless. Not that a Muggle could know what his needs would be, he mused. Hanging up the phone, he headed back to the coffee shop near his – his – lease.  
  
Once inside Aroma Therapy (the name brought a smile to his mouth), he ordered a coffee from the young girl behind the counter and took the only empty table of the three that were inside. He sat down and flipped absently through the sports section of the newspaper that was already lying on the table.  
  
He ignored Quidditch stats and pictures of players scoring and such, too preoccupied with trying to make plans for his café to take much notice of what –  
  
What?!  
  
Quidditch?!  
  
...  
  
Harry stared at the paper before him, unaware that his mouth hung open. It was the same edition of the Daily Prophet that still sat, unopened, on his coffee table. What was it doing in a Muggle coffee shop?  
  
A voice from his past resurfaced...  
  
Blimey, Harry, everyone'd be wantin' magic solutions to their problems.  
  
This was a serious breech of security, surely!  
  
A cough made his jaw snap shut. He blinked up at a worried looking woman, holding a cup of coffee. She was a motherly looking woman with a light complexion and dark curly hair, and she didn't look particularly pleased with him. She warily set the coffee cup down and returned to the counter without a word, giving him a lingering once-over of suspicion.  
  
Harry closed the paper and shakily picked up his coffee for a sip. He glanced around to see if anyone had noticed...  
  
And found the five or so people present looking at him with similar expressions of wariness. When he looked around, they hastily returned to books and drinks.  
  
What had he gotten himself into now?  
  
A man came from a curtained doorway to stand behind the counter. His pleasant, open face was tempered by a frown as he looked around. The woman who'd given Harry his drink leaned in to speak to him, and the frown deepened. Harry sighed, stood up, picked up the newspaper and started for the door. Whatever was going on, he'd just leave. Hopefully no one had seen the newspaper. He'd call the lease agent and see just what that man had been thinking when he described the neighbor businesses as "a friendly and homely lot."  
  
Halfway to the door, a hand on his shoulder stopped him. He felt himself stiffen in mild alarm. He swallowed and turned around, finding himself facing the man from behind the counter. Behind the man, the girl who'd taken his order and the older woman watched nervously.  
  
"You'll need to leave that newspaper here, sir," the man told Harry somberly. "It's just a gag newspaper, see? A new technology." He sounded nervous, too, and he stumbled over the word 'technology' as though it were in a foreign tongue.  
  
Of all the things Harry was expecting the man to say, this certainly wasn't close. He took a better look at the man; He was middle-aged, balding, and wore a smudged apron over a pair of red flannel pants and a white t-shirt. Looking at the other customers again, Harry saw a woman in her twenties wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, but fidgeting with a pen that looked suspiciously like a quill. An older man with salt-and-pepper hair had his shirt buttoned wrong, and a small copper coin glinted near his coffee cup. Harry faintly thought that the woman across from him said something like, "Don't know how a Muggle could have wandered in..."  
  
It all slid gently into place, and he breathed easier. He handed the Prophet to the man who still held his hand out for it, giving him a faint, relieved smile.  
  
"The realty agent didn't say anything about the shops around here being, er, of the wizarding world," Harry explained hesitantly.  
  
The man's frown fell away, and he let out a breath. He, too, looked relieved. "So you're not a Muggle, then?"  
  
Harry grinned. "No! And I'm glad I finally realized that you lot weren't! I saw the newspaper, in what I thought was just a Muggle coffee shop in London, and nearly freaked..." Harry trailed off with an embarrassed shrug. He could feel his face heating up but was relieved to hear scattered laughter and renewed conversation around them.  
  
The man turned around and said, "It's ok, Willa! He's a wizard! No worries!" This provoked another round of laughter because the woman gave him an annoyed look at his obvious statement.  
  
Turning back around, he introduced himself. "I'm Ady Fridolf, and that's my wife Willa and daughter Gina behind the counter. This place is ours."  
  
His wife was there, then, shaking his hand and welcoming him. The other customers introduced themselves as well, but Harry was too caught up in his embarrassment to note many names. The woman with the quill was Emma, and the two with the knut were the Knoxes.  
  
They were laughing about the misunderstanding, with scattered comments like "You dress Muggle so well!" and "Like you'd never seen a picture move before!" floating around, when the question came. It ended the lightness with an immediacy that stung.  
  
"Oh! My, what manners we lot have!" Mrs. Fridolf exclaimed. "What's your name, dear? I'm afraid we didn't give you much of a chance to introduce yourself before we got to joking around!" She sent the room a lightly admonishing look.  
  
Harry felt his grin fade and the lingering remnants of his blush flee as the color drained from his face. Oh. He berated himself mentally for not seeing this coming.  
  
Silence soon descended once more, and he took a breath, looking downward. He couldn't lie, not when they were so nice... but what would happen when he told them...?  
  
Consequences be damned. He looked up at newly worried faces and forced the words from his mouth. "I'm Harry Potter... er... pleased to meet you all."  
  
Silence.  
  
"Oh. OH," was all that Mrs. Fridolf could say, putting her hand to her mouth. Everyone else just stared.  
  
Mr. Fridolf licked his lips, made a small noise in his throat, and gestured in the general direction of Harry's forehead. Harry felt his impassive expression give way to sorrow, and his throat tightened. He'd gotten past all of this, given it up as over, as done with. And this was why he'd disliked the thought of going back into magical society! He didn't want to be placed on some pedestal. Please, he thought, not now, not when things were getting good...  
  
No one said anything, still, and Harry gave up. He felt his jaw clench, and he turned to leave. It was Gina Fridolf that caught his arm before he could reach the door. He refused to look back at the people behind him, but she was already speaking.  
  
"Guys! He's a person, too! You know you're all sick of hearing mothers tell their children to 'act like Harry', and such, like he's superhuman! He's a good soul, obviously, and strong, but think of what he's been through. Treat him the same as anyone else you'd just met? Without judgment?"  
  
It was the questioning plea in the last two sentences that finally made Harry turn back around. Gina let go of him, and he took a deep breath.  
  
"That is all I can ask for," he added, "and all I would like."  
  
"Of course it is, you poor, poor dear!" Mrs. Fridolf near bawled, enveloping him in a bear hug. She wasn't a large woman, but her strength was imposing.  
  
A new bout of chatter broke out: "Didn't recognize you without your glasses!" (Harry had his eyesight magically corrected before the Final Battle for obvious reasons), "You look so different from all of your pictures!" and "Why, your scar's almost invisible!"  
  
Harry was amused at that last one. "It's fading," he conceded with a small smile. It felt good, now, instead of an emptying factor.  
  
When at last the noise died down – Harry was amazed that so few people could generate so much talk! – he mentally collected himself. Speaking to the room at large, he said "Thank you for not asking the questions I don't want to answer." Most of them looked away. "And I'd really, really appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone that you met me here." Their gazes returned to his face; a few lips were bit, a couple of feet shuffled.  
  
Gina nodded from beside him. "It would be awkward, and we'd probably have the entire world squished into this place just to get a look at you, not to mention the press wanting a word." She gave him a small smile of encouragement, and Harry smiled back.  
  
Gingerly, the people around him agreed that this would remain confidential. The Fridolfs offered to talk to the people that ran the other – equally magical – shops around the 'square', as the people called the group of shops (Harry supposed they made a square-ish shape).  
  
It was with a slightly lightened heart that Harry returned to his apartment. He was looking forward to getting into this new venture of his and building some relationships that didn't center around his destiny. It was a new life, in every sense of the phrase, and he was going to do it as right as he could manage.  
  
That night he climbed into his new bed, between crisp sheets and a warm comforter, and settled down into a delightfully pleasant slumber.  
  
*************  
  
The Ministry was a decidedly unpleasant place, Draco noted. He was sitting in yet another uncomfortable chair, waiting yet again, for the occupant of the comfy one behind the desk to return. Surely it wasn't this much trouble to get a damned certificate saying that he'd completed his schooling.  
  
They were just upset that he'd done it in a matter of months, probably. But he'd passed their damned tests, hadn't he? He muttered ingratiously. The stuffy bastards.  
  
Finally the stiff young man wearing dull brown robes returned, bearing a promising folder. All the other returning administrators had been empty handed, though full of directions of who he should be seeing at the moment. As if they all didn't work on the same damned floor of the Ministry! Draco smoothed his features with an effort. Now that it looked as though he was getting somewhere, but he'd hate to botch the job by having a bad attitude – though he had one hell of a right to it at this point.  
  
The young man cleared his throat as he sat behind his desk, opening the folder and picking sheets from the contents. "Mr. M-Malfoy," he stuttered, pausing to clear his throat again, "I believe you'll find everything in order here. Your certificate of completed schooling is here, along with your N.E.W.T. credentials and approval stamps. "  
  
Draco felt his tense frame relax. Thank god! he thought. Out loud he said to the man in a weary, heartfelt tone, "Thank you very, very much." He got a nervous smile in return.  
  
"I'm sorry we kept you waiting so long, but apparently there was some need to verify your instruction with your tutors," the man explained.  
  
Draco raised an eyebrow. That had been what the fuss was about? Had they thought that the "instruction" had come by nefarious means? He sighed. His efforts would never be enough for these people, he thought. He would have to get a job well away from the Ministry and its suspicious runarounds. They'd never trust him. He doubted anyone besides his house staff and senile mother would, at this point.  
  
Draco took the papers the man offered, scanned them over, and stood. With another curt "thank you" he was out the door. He took the lift down to the main lobby and strode out, past the welcome desk, past the people milling about, and finally past that damned fountain.  
  
Once he was out on the street, he paused to breathe. It was so suffocating in there! After a moment of trying to relax, Draco had to groan. He'd have to return, fake telephone call and all, in order to apparate back to the Manor. He started to lean against the wall beside him but stopped when he realized it was covered with postings of some sort. He frowned. It was a strange place to advertise things, he thought. This building was spelled to push attention away. So why would Muggles post things here?  
  
A closer inspection plainly discarded the Muggle part of his assumption. "Mostly human nanny needed to help with muggle-born twins" was scrawled on a piece of paper, with a Floo destination beneath, and an added "must be good humored and willing to clean up messes" at the bottom. Below that, on a strangely professional looking ad, was written, "Help needed with a fledgling bakery. Comfortable work atmosphere and friendly people. Apparation certification necessary, experience with accounting and general bookkeeping a plus. Telephone"--and there was a sequence of seven numbers-- "or write H. Prescott at"--and there was an address--"to enquire." The heading listed a business address, so 'enquiries' could probably be made there, too.  
  
Draco was curious, mostly drawn in by the neatness of the last advertisement than anything else. He'd been keeping tabs on the Daily Prophet, and there'd been no mention of such. Why on earth would any self- respecting wizard or witch advertise only on the outside of the blasted Ministry? The condition of the parchment indicated that it had been there for a while, and unless Mr. Prescott wasn't as neat as his ad conveyed and so hadn't removed the thing, no one had responded. Or no one had gotten the job, in any event. Draco took the parchment down off of the makeshift bulletin board and reentered the Ministry to apparate to Diagon Alley.  
  
A short stop at Flourish and Blotts, and Draco finally apparated home, laden with two surprisingly thick volumes on bookkeeping and accounting: Numbers for the magical business and Keeping magically clean books.  
  
This was going to be interesting, he supposed. As far as he'd been concerned, numbers were only any good in Arithmancy. He doubted that particular N.E.W.T. would help him at all with this task.  
  
He inquired after his mother once inside the door, was assured by a house elf that all was well, and ensconced himself in his study to get a grasp of the contents of his purchases.  
  
Three hours later, he was thoroughly amused. Why on earth did so little take so much to say... and page after page of example! As though this were more than child's play. His Arithmancy did come into play, actually, as accounting was simply another, if nonmagical, way of manipulating numbers. Even more, the two subjects were interrelated! Accounting was simply working with the information involved in "keeping the books." They could have combined the two heavy books into one volume half the size of either. He snorted in disgust.  
  
He put the books aside, stretching. Tomorrow he would visit this place and see if it was worth refining his knowledge of the two subjects. He'd have to go by Muggle way, at least partly, as there'd been no Floo destination, and he wished to see the place before talking to the people who ran the place, just to avoid any potential awkwardness.  
  
Draco stopped by his mother's rooms on the way to his own to say goodnight. He knocked lightly on the carved wood of the door and opened it when he heard the light "come in!" from behind it. He stopped on the threshold and stared.  
  
Narcissa Malfoy stood in the middle of the rug of her modest – by the Manor's standards – sitting room, in all her splendor. She wore one of her best gowns of white satin and lace, adorned with pearls and ivory. Silver trim decked the skirts, sleeves, and neck. Her blonde hair was piled atop her head in a cascade, its perfection belied by carefully achieved carelessness. Her finest silver and white gold decorated both wrists and her neck, and several pieces glinted from her hair. Her fine features were emphasized by careful additions of color here and there, and her smile was beauty personified.  
  
Draco felt his breath catch and sudden tears threaten. She was like before... She was everything the Malfoy name held in its glory days. A sense of loss, sorrow, and nostalgia swamped him, and he couldn't move.  
  
"Draco, dear! I'm so glad you stopped in to say good night!" His mother beamed at him. He blinked. "Your father's running late, as usual – men! – but we'll soon be off. I know, I know. But don't worry, you'll soon be old enough to come with us. Don't be too impatient; these affairs are ever so dull!" Her slim hands went to her hips, and she laughed daintily. Draco mustered a small smile in return, trying not to let his tears spill.  
  
"Oh!" his mother exclaimed, "And don't let me forget to tell your father to reward the servants for their excellent work as of late! They've been absolute dears, always there when I need them," she crooned, gesturing to the house elf, clad in a ratty lace pillow sack, who stood nervously in a corner.  
  
As his gaze moved its way, the elf hastily tried to explain itself. "Missus wanted to, sir! And sir said that if it didn't hurt anyone it was fine and – " Draco cut her off with a sharp motion. Turning back to his mother, he said, "I'll remember it," and was rewarded with another brilliant smile.  
  
"Good. Then you be off to bed then; it's getting late." Draco didn't have the heart to tell her that it was only around seven-thirty. "I'll tell you all about it when I get the chance, all right? And I'll tell your father you send your love,"-- Draco choked on his tears-- "so just come here and give me a hug for the both of us."  
  
Draco crossed the room to his elegantly spirited mother and wrapped his arms gently around her, closing his eyes against the contrast of his dark grey robes against her pure white gown. She returned his embrace tightly, and he gave in to the urge to hug her as he never had in his tightly controlled childhood. He cried onto her shoulder without apology, and she rocked him, soothing him, making him cry harder with the emotions her loving actions provoked. His tears were for what was lost, and what would never be. They were for his mother, still beautiful in spirit and body, despite the hell she'd lived through. They were even for Lucius Malfoy, who had once been a man Draco was proud to call Father, with all the love and respect inherent in the title. Finally his tears and breathing slowed, and he was able to let go. His mother patted his cheek with a slim, graceful hand.  
  
Pulling away slowly, he smiled through his pain. Narcissa gave his face one last reassuring stroke. "There's my good little dragon. All fire under the Malfoy ice," she mused fondly. In that moment, Draco would have sworn that she was perfectly sane, that there was even the weight of it all in a barely visible shadow behind her vivid blue eyes...  
  
"Off to bed!" And it was gone, back to the innocently unstable woman playing dress-up.  
  
Draco buried the pang of longing for what he thought he'd seen (he so wanted another adult around... someone to share the weight of the world with...) and turned to leave. He grasped the door and looked back at his mother once more. Narcissa smiled again, and again he saw a shadow there, intensified by the tearstains on the shoulder of her gown. "Goodnight, mother," Draco said.  
  
As the door shut, a murmur whispered around its edges. "Farewell, Draco."  
  
He stood outside the door for countless moments, hearing nothing. With heavy footsteps and an even heavier heart he made his way to his room, undressing slowly before the mirror on his wall. Off went his robes, and a lithe, lean frame was revealed. Off went his undershirt, and the ropy muscles of his torso were bared. Off went his pants, and legs toned by restless pacing and a naturally powerful stride showed. Finished, Draco looked at his reflection.  
  
He supposed he should be proud of his alabaster skin and excellent figure, of his soft, expertly cut hair that shifted silkily about his shoulders. His eyes, a silvery, icy blue were nothing short of attention catching, surely. Perhaps he should be vain. He shook his head, clearing his wandering thoughts, and climbed into bed.  
  
Instead of closing his eyes and regulating his breathing until sleep came, he found himself waiting.  
  
As if, maybe, he knew.  
  
A tentative rap at the door heralded the arrival of a house elf.  
  
"Come in," he murmured, and it did.  
  
"Missus is..." came the waif's voice through the soft darkness. He'd never heard a house elf clear its throat like that, he mused. "Missus drank poison. Missus is gone."  
  
Draco's throat constricted.  
  
The shadows in her beautiful eyes, the tear stains on her shoulder...  
  
Maybe he'd known.  
  
Draco rose to take care of things. It would be a sleepless night, but what did it matter, in the long run? He was alone now. He had no one to survive for but himself (wasn't that the Slytherin mindset, though?), a prospect he found thinner and thinner as this life wore on.  
  
_________________________________________  
  
AN:  
  
Thank you Sailor Grape for an awesome editing job! You make life so much easier! And thanks to Marie, Crimson_Tears, Elly Malfoy, and Sak for their reviews. Without them I'd have felt pretty crappy about my first chapter. 


	3. Shake It Up

Title: More Than Meant To Be  
  
Author/Artist: DangerouslyHazle  
  
Pairing: H/D  
  
Rating: R (for future content)  
  
Chapter Summary: Let's just say things really get cooking  
  
Disclaimer: Nearly everything belongs to JK Rowling, I can take credit only for the story line and a few OCs, and I've no intention of making profit of off any of this.  
  
Possible Spoilers: Any of the books, potentially.  
  
Warnings: m/m slash _________________________________________________  
  
Chapter three: Shake it up  
  
Bleeding ignorant mass of dung, Draco swore to himself, sticking his hands awkwardly into his jeans. It had been hell getting to Cozy Square, this little branch of wizarding respite in the middle of metropolitan London. In the middle of Muggle London, no less. The only good thing was that it was close to the metro (that he'd had to take that contraption at all was awful!). Well, that and he'd be able to apparate now. If he had reason to return, that is...  
  
The sidewalk away from the main streets and crowded sidewalk had the tingle of magic to it, but Draco walked slowly despite the deliberately unpleasant feeling.  
  
It had been three weeks since he'd plucked the parchment from the wall outside the Ministry. Would the position still be open? Well, it's not like he'd had a choice. Priorities, he told himself.  
  
He came upon a reasonably sized square of grass, the sidewalk splitting and bordering it, passing in front of several small shops that made up Cozy Square. Draco looked down at the parchment he held in his hand and then back up at the smallest of the businesses. Prescott's Pastries. He sighed. If nothing else, he could get something to eat. Food was an area of his life that had been neglected lately.  
  
A bell tied to the corner of the door rang as he opened it. A young woman stood behind the counter, frowning down at something. Her chestnut hair fell across her face, obscuring some of it from view, but at the sound of the bell she looked up.  
  
Her face relaxed into an open and welcome expression, and after catching sight of him her brown eyes turned appraising. Draco saw approval there, to his amusement. Girls would always look, wouldn't they? Some guys, too, he thought smugly.  
  
After glancing around – a bespectacled wizard in blue robes sipped tea to the left, and a couple in Muggle dress talked over muffins to the right – Draco approached the counter and scanned the menu behind the woman's head. The menu's letters were made of blue lights and hovered up against the wall. A cute, if simple, bit of spellwork, he thought, and probably easy to alter when needed.  
  
"I suppose I'll have a scone," he said, "and a cup of tea."  
  
When he looked back at the woman she was writing his order down and had a curiously large grin on her face. He raised his eyebrow minutely. Was it something he'd said?  
  
"It'll be just a moment!" she said, ducking around a curtain to disappear through a doorway with a small flourish. He stared after her for a moment, then shook his head and turned to find a seat.  
  
Once situated at a small table just to the side of the entrance, he took a more attentive look around. Could he help manage this business? There were tables and booths for maybe twenty people if all seats were full. The colors were nice, he supposed: white walls and floor, and a green and gold trim.  
  
Part of the counter was clear, with shelves displaying pastries and other baked goods. A smell wafted from the kitchen that tugged at the stomach and must surely entice people to buy more than they'd intended. Draco was even thinking about adding one of those chocolate muffins to his order...  
  
But the girl walked out of the kitchen just then with his scone and tea, so he suppressed his appetite. She walked over to him and set his food down before him, standing back with her hands resting on her hips. She cocked her head at him. "Will there be anything else?" Draco smiled wistfully at the chocolate muffin sitting in the display, and shook his head. "No, thank you, miss," he said.  
  
"Call me Gina," she smiled.  
  
"Well, Gina," he said before she had a chance to leave, "I was wondering what you could tell me about this." He produced the advertisment from his pocket.  
  
"Oh!" she exclaimed, picking it up. "This is the one he put outside the Ministry... and I said no one would ever notice it there!" She positively beamed at him. "Are you here about the job, then?"  
  
Draco nodded. "And I only noticed it by complete accident. I hadn't known there was any sort of message board out there."  
  
Gina snorted. "There isn't! Just a bunch of papers stuck up by people too cheap to advertise in the Prophet, or inside the Ministry," she said with a roll of her eyes. "Our baker and owner, Mr. Prescott, decided he didn't want just anyone working at his place!" she added with a laugh.  
  
Draco looked quizzical. "He wanted someone who'd happen across an advertisement?"  
  
She shrugged. "I guess so. Anyway, eat your scone, and I'll introduce you to the management and the one other underling." She winked at him as she left, probably going to tell Prescott about the potential employee.  
  
Draco bit into his scone and damn near moaned. How could this - this burnt cookie taste so good?! He sniffed it critically. It smelled faintly of coffee... maybe chocolate? What went into a scone, anyway? He'd never cared to contemplate the cracker/cookie things before, but this warranted attention.  
  
"Good food, isn't it?" asked the blue-robed wizard still sitting at the table near Draco. His bushy eyebrows were raised, and his spectacles made his eyes strangely large. Steam rose from his teacup, reminding Draco of his own.  
  
"Yes, the best I've ever tasted," he replied, picking up his tea and sipping. Mint, he was suprised to note, and also good. He finished off his food and drink, standing to take the cup and plate up to the counter.  
  
Gina returned as he got there. She gave him a winsome smile. "So, handsome, you good with numbers?"  
  
Draco had to laugh. "You might say that. I've always been good at Arithmancy, and that's as numerically complicated as you can get. Accounting's simple by comparison."  
  
Gina laughed too. "Hear that! Numbers are easy!" she called over her shoulder. "I think he's calling us dumb!"  
  
"Ha!" came a voice from the kitchen. "That's comforting. We could use some intelligent help around here." Draco felt his brow furrow slightly. That voice seemed vaguely familiar...  
  
"Well," Gina said to him, recalling his attention, "here's what you've got to work with." She handed him a brief summation of the current business system along with a list of the prices of what they sold and their last month or so of transactions. "There are only three people on the staff – four if you join in – so salary is simple. The boss says he's not looking to grow or anything, so it should stay simple. It's light right now, but that's because it's early in the day. Later, or on weekends, we just about fill up."  
  
Draco nodded absentmindedly, running figures in his head. It would be simple working with a small business, then.  
  
"There are two small offices in the back, one of which will be yours. You can negotiate your hours with the boss." She projected the rest of her words back to the kitchen, "That way he can appreciate that some people have social lives!"  
  
An indistinct muttering floated back. "I have a social life, dammit. I just happen to place work higher on my priorities. And stop arguing in front of the new person!"  
  
Gina gave Draco a grin of triumph. "It's fun to get under the boss's skin," she told him conspiratorially. Then a look of mortification came over her. "Oh! Sorry! I've completely lost my manners. I'm Gina," she pointed at her name tag. "What's your name?"  
  
"Draco," he replied. Since she hadn't used her last name, he'd use the excuse not to bring his up just yet.  
  
"Very nice to meet you. My folks own the coffee place just across the way. Drop in for a free cup on your breaks," she said.  
  
"Thank you, I will."  
  
She turned to speak back over her shoulder again. "Harry, would you come meet him already! Just drop what you're doing! And bring the runt with you!"  
  
Harry?  
  
Slowly, the name and the voice clicked, and Draco felt a bemused feeling settle over him. Surely not...?  
  
But the curtain pushed aside, revealing a much-matured, flour-covered Harry Potter, and the certainty that the hands of fate wove against him-- Draco Malfoy--solidified.  
  
This simply was not possible.  
  
Harry looked up and felt the world spin off of its axis.  
  
Standing here in his bakery, right in front of him, was Draco Malfoy. He was older and far more serious-looking than Harry remembered – and with far less smug arrogance as well – in his dark grey robes. His hair was longer, too. It was a soft, shining blonde and had grown past his shoulders.  
  
The look on Harry's face as he caught sight of his employee-to-be was comical. He'd been in the middle of wiping his hands on his untied apron and ready to be loosely professional when he'd walked out from behind the curtain separating the kitchen from the main room. Instead he'd been frozen where he stood, his mouth slightly open.  
  
It was Draco who spoke first. "Potter!" he near-hissed, and the memories came swamping back: Hogwarts, rivalries, friendships... people long lost. Harry swallowed, feeling his face go white and his body heat flee.  
  
Gina stepped out from between the two, looking from one to the other. They knew each other?  
  
"I..." Harry tried to speak but found himself at a loss. He fought back tears. One familiar face, and months of healing (repression, whispered part of him) were undone!  
  
Draco, too, was silent. He looked his ex-rival up and down, marveling at the change. He was much slimmer, and he'd aged in a more than physical way. There was a shadow to his expression... A sharp memory of his mother rose up, when she'd said farewell with shadows in her eyes. Draco bit the inside of his cheek.  
  
No, Harry thought, this will not go like this. He wrested himself back under control and forced himself to breath. "Hello, Draco," he finally said, making the young man in front of him stiffen in surprise at the use of his first name.  
  
Harry took a deep breath and looked at Gina. "Sorry. I... we knew each other at school," he told her. He returned his gaze to Draco. "Would you care to step into the back? We can talk, if you'd like." He braced himself for his ex-enemy's refusal.  
  
Draco waited a heartbeat, wondering if he'd stepped into a reality warp of some sort. Surely Potter would have kicked him out by now... especially with the Malfoy reputation. But instead he was inviting him to talk. After a deep breath, he found the will to reply. "Alright... Harry."  
  
He saw mild surprise flicker in the green depths of Harry's gaze, but the young man just nodded and turned to lead the way back into the kitchen and presumably to the offices beyond.  
  
After the reunited acquaintances had left the room, Gina looked over at Walt Pennamen, who was still sitting with his tea and looking like he was trying not to be noticed. As one of the few people who'd been at the introduction of Harry to the Square community, Walt knew "Mr. Prescott's" true identity.  
  
"Well... I suppose Mum'll want to hear about this one," Gina said lightly.  
  
Walt smiled, his eyes squinching behind his glasses. "It's such a happy thing to see to friends meet after a long time. It'll be nice for Harry to have someone from his past in his life again."  
  
Gina gave him a dubious look. "I don't know about the friends part. But I do agree that he needs his past brought back to light. He spends far too much time burying it all. From the looks of that blonde, he'll shake things up." She gave a wistful smile. "Blondes always do."  
  
Walt snorted.  
  
__________________________________________  
  
AN:  
This chap would SO have been up earlier if I had been able to actually get onto fanfiction.net  
  
*wicked grin* Yeah, I know most of you saw this coming. H. Prescott wasn't TOO much of a dead giveaway, was it? I got a bunch of "*wink*"s in my last few reviews, lol, so I know it wasn't terribly subtle. Anyhow, next chapter won't be up for a while, as I've got a bunch of nonsensical stuff to take care of (aka "responibilities". *eye roll*) I guestimate about a little over a week, but definitely under two. Stay tuned! 


	4. Compromise

Title: More Than Meant To Be  
  
Author/Artist: DangerouslyHazle  
  
Pairing: H/D  
  
Rating: R (for future content)  
  
Chapter Summary: The two "enemies" find themselves facing a compromise.  
  
Disclaimer: Nearly everything belongs to JK Rowling, I can take credit only for the story line and a few OCs, and I've no intention of making profit of off any of this.  
  
Possible Spoilers: Any of the books, potentially.  
  
Warnings: m/m slash _________________________________________________  
  
Chapter four: Compromise  
  
It was a small office, made even more so by the large desk that Harry sat behind, but that didn't stop Draco from pacing.  
  
"If you'd put your real name," he muttered, "neither of us would have to deal with this."  
  
Harry sighed. "Deal with what? We're both adults. We can work civilly together. It's not like it's forced, either. You can leave if you want, there are other jobs," he replied, tipping his chair back and following the blonde wizard with his eyes. Draco slowed to a stop, facing Harry, but said nothing.  
  
"Look, the reason I didn't put my name was... well..." he faltered.  
  
Draco shook his head. "I can see why. I'm just saying that you should have foreseen the possibility of someone you knew showing up."  
  
"Look, Draco," Harry began, "Do you want the job or not? I understand if you'd rather not work with me, but I still don't see any problem with it."  
  
Draco narrowed his eyes. Harry was leaning back in his chair, his frame loose and relaxed, and yet there was a tension running through the young man that belied his apparent nonchalance. Draco folded his arms. "You're not as calm about this as you're putting on," he said, reigning in the accusatory tone that wanted to come out.  
  
Harry said nothing, but fine lines appeared around his mouth as muscles tensed there.  
  
Draco looked around the undecorated office and glanced at the closed door leading back into the well-stocked kitchen. "There's nothing around here that even hints at the state the world is in," he mused, almost to himself. "No jars on the counter for donating to the relief funds, no newspaper articles on the walls, no memorials to fallen heroes." His silver eyes shot back to Harry's green gaze like lightening to a lonely tree. "You're hiding from the war," he said, very accusing this time.  
  
The front legs of Harry's chair slammed back down onto the ground. "You don't know what you're talking about!" he stood and shouted. His suddenly white face made the scar on his forehead vivid once more. It caught Draco's eye, and he noticed its faint appearance.  
  
Harry saw Draco still, his eyes fix – like so many eyes had done before – on the middle of his forehead. Draco's mouth went soft as he stared, a bemused look coming over the young man. His arm raised, and he reached out. Harry couldn't move.  
  
Draco caught himself, and lowered his arm. He swallowed and returned his gaze to Harry's. "Why is it nearly gone?" he asked, and Harry marveled at his expression. It bordered on sadness. "I-I don't know," Harry said. Draco raised an eyebrow, and Harry looked away, running a hand absently through his disheveled hair. "I guess because it's over." His voice came out a hoarse whisper. He nearly collapsed back into his chair.  
  
Draco seated himself on the corner of the desk. "You look so different," he said softly. "No glasses, almost no scar, in clothes that actually fit" – Harry smiled; his jeans and black t-shirt were nearly snug – "and so much older."  
  
"And what about you?" Harry shot back. "Where's the arrogance, the disdain? Why didn't you turn on your heel the moment you saw me and march out with your nose in the air?" he demanded. "Why are you still here?"  
  
Draco cocked his head to the side. "Because I've changed as much as you have. We're not children anymore. I'm looking for work for the same reason I suspect you've chosen to start a bakery: to make my own living in this world."  
  
Harry looked away again, focusing on the grey of Draco's shirt. "Well, we can't live off of our dead family, can we." It was a statement, not a question.  
  
The young man on the desk snorted. "Of course we can. We just won't. We may not consider the option, but it's still there."  
  
Harry sighed. "Yeah, I guess." He opened a desk drawer and pulled a stuffed envelope from it. "Gringott's had to move my inheritance account to a bigger vault because people kept giving me money for killing – well, for ending it," he said with a swallow. "So I took out half of what was there before the war, donated the rest to those relief funds you mentioned, and made a new account under a new name."  
  
Draco silently watched him fiddle with the envelope. Harry glanced up. "It was Gina's family's idea, the name. Harry Prescott. It's horrible, isn't it? Giving up my parents' name just to escape from people's misplaced gratitude."  
  
"A pseudonym isn't giving anything up," Draco replied, "and people's gratitude is hardly misplaced."  
  
Harry snorted. "A lucky kill does not a war win," he retorted.  
  
Draco raised his eyebrow. "Neither does intuition luck make."  
  
Harry opened his mouth to snap back, but a knock at the door interrupted him. The door opened, and a wild mop of brown hair poked around it.  
  
"Hi," a voice squeaked, and the boy paused to clear his throat, continuing in a more normal manner. "Sorry, Harry, but Gina says 'stop trading wisdoms and finish your batch of scones'." A skinny arm appeared, and the boy brushed his bangs aside to look at Draco with light green eyes. "And hi, I'm Gerard. You can call me Gerry. Are you the new guy?" Gerry grinned at him, and Draco found it impossible not to smile back at the gawky teen.  
  
"Yes," he replied firmly, "I am." He shot a challenging look at Harry, who rolled his eyes.  
  
"Well." Harry stood, taking his apron from where he'd slung it across the chair and replacing it around his waist. "Now you know who's really the boss around here," he told Draco. "This is Gina's cousin, by the way, our informal bus boy and the last member of our staff, excepting yourself."  
  
Draco nodded at the boy. "Pleased to meet you. I'll be managing these 'accounts' of yours," he said with a smirk, "so that they'll be worthy of the name at some point."  
  
Gerry laughed. "I like him. Nice change from you, boss."  
  
Harry swatted at the boy, and he ducked back into the kitchen.  
  
"Well," Harry said, "the office next door is yours. I hope it's got everything you need." He started to leave, then paused. "If it doesn't, talk to Gina." And with that, Harry escaped to his baking.  
  
Draco shook his head. "Gryffindors." He rose, collected the ledgers Gina had given him earlier, and went to start organizing the fledgling business.  
  
It was awkward at first, but eventually Draco grew to enjoy the daily ritual of Apparating to the Square and putting in his hours at Potter's Pastries (he refused to acknowledge the fake name, although he did refrain from saying his version of the store name in front of other people, to his credit). He figured it was simply nice to get away from the echoingly empty manor. There were still things unspoken between them, but Harry refused to let the past be brought up. Despite that, the two managed to become at least comfortable around one another, even to the point of idle conversation and jokes. The weeks passed in a companionable silence, with the books soon balanced and organized. Everything was running smoothly enough that Draco extended his duties to helping in the main room during the busier days. It was perhaps deceptively simple to immerse himself in this simple part of life and ignore the shadows that haunted him. Draco wasn't one to examine a blessing, however.  
  
Today seemed to be one of those busy days, if Harry's muttering as he wrestled things in and out of the oven and Gina's opposing good mood were any indicators (and they always were). Draco stretched. It was only ten- thirty; he'd been in for only a couple of hours, and everything was ready for the employee's checks to be made out tomorrow. He wandered out of his office's open door and leaned against the frame. Harry wore a long-sleeved white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his typical Muggle jeans, and a flour- and cinnamon-covered apron over it all. He was knuckle deep in a mound of dough and wore an unusually bad-tempered scowl on his face. Draco shook his head. He'd never understand why Harry chose not to wear robes.  
  
Gina blew into the kitchen with a cheery smile in his direction, slapped an order on a counter near Harry, and twirled right back out again, singing something along the lines of "I've only got eyes for yooooooooou!". Harry's scowl deepened, and he glared at the now empty doorway. He spotted Draco and suddenly blushed brightly.  
  
Draco gave him a puzzled smile. "Did I miss something?" he asked, lightly, staying where he was. He'd discovered it was only too easy to get flour on his grey robes.  
  
Harry shook his head. "That woman is going to kill me," he muttered.  
  
Draco laughed, shaking his head, and said, "A lone witch managing what hordes of Death Eaters couldn't?" just to watch Harry tighten up as he always did at the mention of the past. Draco had every intention of badgering the Wonder Boy (Harry hated Draco's nickname for him) into talking at some point.  
  
To Draco's delight, Harry had little visible reaction to the jibe. He just snorted and muttered again. "She's definitely got her evil points."  
  
This brought another laugh. "What'd she do this time?" Draco asked as Harry resumed his kneading of the dough.  
  
"Oh, just decided that now that we've got everything nice and organized," he glared at Draco, as if it were his fault, "I've got more than enough time for a social life." The dough received a thorough pounding.  
  
Draco smiled. "So go out with some nice girl to get the monster off your case."  
  
To his surprise, Harry's motions faltered, and the boy went white. Harry swallowed and wiped his nose on his rolled-up sleeve, avoiding looking up at Draco. He murmured something.  
  
Draco took a step closer, and Harry jumped. "What?"  
  
"I said it's not that simple!" Harry repeated, loudly this time. "Look, I'm busy. Can we talk later?" He started molding the dough into cinnamon rolls on a pan, pausing to take a completed tray out of the oven when a timer went off.  
  
Draco sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. Who was he to bug the boss? He headed out to help Gina in the main room...  
  
... Only to be greeted with a nearly empty shop. He paused, staring around. But all the fuss... he'd been sure the place was teeming. It was Tuesday, and early, but still. All that over the familiar argument of Harry's workaholism? He looked at Gina, who hummed as she rearranged the cookies set up on the counter as today's special. Draco reached over to grab one, biting into the still-moist goodie. Gina laughed, foregoing her usual token reprimand. He raised an eyebrow.  
  
"Drake, dear, we've got to get Harry out," she said, putting her hands on her hips. Draco smiled at the nickname. He'd been surprised to find he didn't mind the endearment. She treated him like a little boy, and after meeting her mother he'd seen where the mothering instinct had come from. She continued. "Are you busy tonight? I was thinking we three could go out. There's a bar run by a witch a couple of blocks from here that's got a happy hour special going on tonight."  
  
Draco chewed his cookie slowly. It was a daunting thought, much to his chagrin. He realized that even as he'd aided Gina's jibes about Harry's lack of fun, he himself had no social life to speak of. He worked; he went home; he went about the motions of straightening his family's affairs. What use would he be at a happy hour? He was never happy.  
  
"Well?" Gina demanded. When Draco still didn't reply, but just stood there pensively eating his chocolate chip cookie, she threw up her hands in disgust. "You two deserve each other!" Draco raised his eyebrow calmly. Gina slid the last cookie onto the display. "I'm taking a break. Please think about tonight. Both of you could use it." She left the shop, the bell on the door ringing furiously.  
  
Draco exchanged glances with Mr. Pennaman, who was in the shop every morning from the hours of ten to noon without fail, drinking mint tea and reading the Prophet. Draco had never talked to the man, but he seemed nice and kept to himself.  
  
He finished his cookie and grabbed a mug from the cupboard behind him, tossing in a tea bag and pouring hot water from the pot on the counter. He replaced the glass pot, watching the mild red glow of the heating spell resume. He added honey and leaned on the counter while he stirred, letting the subtle peach scent waft over him.  
  
Did he want to go tonight? It probably wouldn't be bad; he'd look downright amiable next to Harry in any social situation. He'd had enough social training to fake it, at least, although this would be markedly more casual than his family's dinner affairs. He sipped at his tea.  
  
He'd go ahead and go. It was a witch-run place, so it wasn't like they were going to a Muggle bar.  
  
Through the windows of the shop, Draco saw Gerry talking to a young girl from the magazine next door. Hmm. Might not be a bad idea to get an outsider's take on this argument.  
  
When the girl left, with a lingering look that spoke of more than friendship between the two, Draco waved at Gerry.  
  
The youth wore baggy hand-me-down robes in a faded blue, with patches on the elbows. Gina had mentioned, with a show of woeful shame, that it was more a fashion statement than anything else. His hair, more of a mess than even Harry's could ever have been, certainly was. The brown locks looked like a bowl cut gone fluffy, and Draco always had to bite back a grin at the sight of the boy.  
  
"Wotcher, Draco. What's goin' on?" The slang was painful., but at least he was coherent, unlike some of the other teens that occasioned the Square.  
  
"I was wondering if you knew what your cousin was bugging Harry about this time," Draco said casually, brushing an imaginary speck off of his sleeve.  
  
"Well," Gerry pushed at his bangs ineffectually, "the same thing. 'Bout him needin' to get out more, 'n stuff."  
  
"But it was different this time," Draco said, abandoning nonchalance with a frown. "Harry was furious, and Gina was downright gleeful. It was the same, in a way, but to an extreme."  
  
Gerry shrugged but didn't meet Draco's eyes; he had to know something. With a narrowing of his eyes, Draco was about to lay into the youth with all his coercive powers when the boy's head snapped up, and he fired a question first.  
  
"Do you like guys?" His spring green eyes were intense, and there was a serious depth to them.  
  
The question caught Draco in the middle of launching his inquisition. The shock froze him to the spot.  
  
Gerry exhaled, making his hair puff away from his face. "Look, I was just asking."  
  
The stunned Draco blinked. Then blinked again. Why would that question come up?  
  
He cleared his throat. "Look, Gerard. You're a nice kid, really," he managed, emphasizing the youthful title. "But... I... we... I mean, you can't think..." Draco waved his hands helplessly.  
  
Gerry stared at him for a moment. Understanding dawned, and he hastily spoke, "No, no! I didn't mean you and me!" The youth blushed a bright red. "I just meant... in general..." He scuffed at the floor, looking down.  
  
Draco paused. "Well... there've been some guys I've had." He stopped there. That sounded wrong... "Well, see, I never really thought in terms of gender. It was simply 'I liked a person, I went for them.' Male or female." Gerry was wide-eyed. Draco sighed and reached up to run a hand through his hair. "Why do you ask?"  
  
Gerry gave a slow shrug. "I guess I was just... well, with all this talk about social lives..." He ran out of explanation.  
  
Draco cocked his head to the side. "Do you?" he asked, and the youth's skin reddened once more.  
  
"Yeah. But look, nevermind that I asked you. I guess I was just... I dunno," he finished lamely. "Look, I gotta go see Aunt Willa. Got something for me to do," he said, walking backwards as he spoke. His back hit the door, and he threw a hasty "See ya!" over his shoulder as he exited the bakery.  
  
Draco exhaled gustily, sagging against the countertop. Suddenly a night out sounded like a really good idea... especially since drinks would be involved.  
  
A thought occured to him, and he straightened suddenly, looking around. But the table previously occupied by Walt Pennaman was empty, and the clock read twelve-thirty. Draco breathed a sigh of relief. That was one conversation better had without witnesses. 


	5. Cut to the Chase

1Title: More Than Meant To Be

Author/Artist: DangerouslyHazle

Pairing: H/D

Rating: R (for future content)

Chapter Summary: The friction ignites.

Disclaimer: Nearly everything belongs to JK Rowling, I can take credit only for the story line and a few OCs.

Possible Spoilers: Any of the books, potentially.

Warnings: m/m slash

Chapter Five: Cutting to the Chase

"Abso-bloody-lutely not." Harry's arms were crossed over his bare chest as he stood in the doorway of his bedroom. Gina was shaking a shirt at him, insisting it would be "killer." He would have none of it.

"Look, fine, I'm going, all right?" He spread his hands, open palms facing upward. "So just calm down and let me dress as I will!"

Gina's hands went to her slim hips. She wore a short midnight blue dress that hugged her curves and accented her mahogany-sheened hair and light brown eyes. She cocked her head at the half-naked man before her. "You're wearing the jeans I told you to, aren't you?"

Harry sighed. "Only because they're my nicest pair." The black jeans were the tightest ones as well, unfortunately. "And you insisted that slacks were too dressy."

She had to bite down a smile. She'd only said that because Harry's slacks had a tendency to be far too loose to be any fun. The Brewery was pretty casual, anyway. She widened her eyes in her best Pretty-Pleeeeease look. "It's a nice shirt. It'll bring out your eyes."

Harry shoved his hands into his hair, making a noise of frustration. Gina let her eyes rove, enjoying the view of lean muscles moving beneath smooth skin. There was a small line of dark hair that appeared as his torso stretched out, leading from his belly down into his jeans towards –

He strode forward and snatched the shirt from her hands. "Stop ogling me! I'll wear the damned shirt!" He slammed his bedroom door behind him.

Gina laughed, shaking her brown curls back over her shoulder. "You're such a heterophobe," she chuckled. A moment later, Harry reemerged. He leaned against the doorway and raised an eyebrow.

"I fail to see how purple can bring out my eyes," he said with dry resignation.

Gina felt her eyes widen again, this time in genuine appreciation. "Harry, dear, it's _royal_ purple,"

she sighed, "and everyone knows that purple is brilliant with green."

The effect was electrifying. It was a tight polyester shirt of the darkest purple, hugging Harry's torso and making his eyes glitter from within, an ethereal green fire. The short sleeves accented his modestly built biceps, and the black jeans hugged his backside like a fond lover. The unruly black hair and current expression of dry amusement made him look like he'd either just come from bed… or was in desperate need of being dragged into the nearest one.

Gina licked her suddenly dry lips. "He'll keel over," she murmured.

Harry simply sighed at the excitement in her voice. He'd learned not to get annoyed at this familiar conversation thread, but he couldn't help voicing an argument. "I doubt he'll bat an eyelash. Let's go, sweet stuff."

He pushed himself off the door frame with an easy show of lithe movement and headed for the door, grabbing his leather jacket – a welcoming gift from the people of the Square – to ward off the cool evening air.

Gina followed, taking her own long wool coat from where she'd tossed it on the couch. She'd been prepared to wrestle Harry into her choice of clothing. At the moment, she was glad to be following the young man; her grin would probably have incited retaliation.

And the view couldn't be better.

Draco had Apparated to the Square and followed Ady Fridolf's directions to the place Gina had chosen. He stood outside, his breath puffing before him, glancing about at the people lounging outside. He was early, he knew, but he'd always liked the advantage of time.

The establishment looked genial enough, and of course had to be better for being off-limits to non-magical folk. The sign set above the door of the brick building was wood, the sinuous words 'The Brewery' neatly carved into it, along with a cauldron pouring a green and orange brew into a tankard. He was early, he knew, and deliberately so. He wasn't entirely sure what Gina was up to, and had wanted to check the place out for himself. He started to venture through the double wooden doors leading inward to look inside when he spotted a familiar head of brown tresses headed his way. He mentally swore. Of course, they would be early as well. Silly him.

His gaze lingered on Gina for a moment. She looked nice, with her curls let loose and her features accented with make-up. Harry, beside her, was wearing black pants and a black jacket. Draco snorted. Dressy didn't mean black, did it? Or was Harry simply showing his dislike of the situation?

But the closer the two got, the better Harry's choice of attire looked. His wind-ruffled hair looked soft and inviting, and his pants hugged his lean hips. The leather jacket made him look roguish. Suddenly, the night air wasn't so cold. Draco's breath was even more visible before him.

"Hey, hot stuff," Gina called when she spotted him. Draco couldn't drag his eyes from Harry, but he managed a casual smile and a wave towards the two as they drew closer. Harry's gaze lit on him, too, and Draco had the satisfaction of watching those deadly green eyes narrow, flickering up and down Draco's form. The blonde thought he saw Harry's throat bob in a swallow, too.

Draco hadn't put all that much care into dressing, really, but he knew he looked good anyway. His shirt was form-fitting, long-sleeved and light grey, and he'd worn one of his few pairs of jeans, these particular ones a faux-faded blue. His jacket was dark brown and long, made of a light but insulating material that ruffled in the wind. When Harry's vivid green eyes finally returned to his, Draco made a point of returning the look-over, mostly for the sake of watching those tanned cheeks redden.

When the approaching duo reached the place where he stood, Gina grabbed Draco, putting him quite firmly on her free arm. "Shall we?" she asked, and continued towards the door without waiting for an answer. Draco rolled his eyes, and on the other side of the bossy female Harry shook his head resignedly.

Inside, the crowd was noisy and the live band tucked into the corner played with vigor. The dancing floor was decently full, and the bar had only a few bare stools. Behind the bar, a rowdy middle-aged woman tended the customers, conversing at a rate rivaling that of her rapid handling of the drinks. The three newcomers managed to talk their way into a group of three stools at the bar, and ordered themselves drinks, Gina and Draco both being appropriately disapproving of Harry's decision to have a bottle of beer.

"Surely you're kidding..." Draco said. Harry just snorted and raised his eyebrow at him. He took off his jacket, for the temperature inside The Brewery was a far cry from that outside, then opened his beer to swig blatantly in the blonde's face. Gina laughed, and started to say something that was cut short by something the rather striking wizard next to her leaned over to say.

Harry watched Gina go into her sultry flirt mode, and grinned. He didn't need to date, he could just live vicariously through her. She definitely got enough action for the both of them. He glanced at Draco, expecting him to be drinking his pretentious concoction of a drink in silence. Surely such complicated nonsense deserved special attention...

But Draco wasn't focused on the drink at all. Those silvery blue eyes were locked on Harry with a heat that lit the latter's nerves afire upon immediate contact with his own green gaze. Harry just stared, though his stare was very much the helpless prey to Draco's current predation. Slowly, Draco leaned closer. The eye contact broke as he placed his hotly breathing mouth a scant millimeter from Harry's ear.

"You know, Potter, that color suits your eyes," the blonde murmured, drawling the last name out in an indecent manner and causing blood to rush from Harry's brain to other parts of his anatomy. Despite being threatened by the activity, his thoughts sped up, going through all of Gina's tauntings and suggestions and outright challenges. With a deliberate sensuality he didn't know he was capable of, Harry pulled back enough to meet Draco's eyes once more.

"You should see me on satin bedsheets," he replied.

And he watched whatever dam had kept Draco's demeanor together crack, that released heat pouring over them both. "Well, what a coincidence. I happen to have lovely set of black satin on my bed right now." Draco murmured.

Harry gave him a slow smile. "To your place, then?"

"Race you," Draco replied.

The simultaneous cracks of the apparating wizards startled their companion and the man she was conversing with to jump. "What the bloody...?" Gina demanded of the bare stools. Amazed comprehension dawned, and she grinned. "Huh. Who'd have thought it was that easy?" she turned back to her new acquaintance. "They must have had something built up from their school days. Men, I swear."

AN:

Wow... it's... been a while since I updated this. As in it took me months to finally write this chapter. That's rather sad. Luckily, though, I've rediscovered it, and have renewed interest (though I wouldn't quote me on that. I'm sleep deprived like you wouldn't believe right now).

Thank you to people who reviewed while I was on hiatus! That meant a lot to come back to people who had read the first four chapters and liked them! I shall endeavor to continue in a pleasing manner .


End file.
